


tally

by windingwoods



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, background owainigo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 22:13:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7286680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windingwoods/pseuds/windingwoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know how I feel about those who love poetry, may they be gifted or not.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	tally

**Author's Note:**

  * For [long_love_the_king](https://archiveofourown.org/users/long_love_the_king/gifts).



> guess who's got a bias for the rarest of rare ships and died several times through the whole of the soleil/mitama support?  
> also this is super silly and soleil's pov has proved itself to be an awful enabler sO im deeply sorry. i hope u guys like it as much as i had fun w the writing!

Soleil likes to keep a list of the things she shares with her family. She knows she’s got her father’s jaw line, and his lips (together with all the cheesy crap they spout, to quote aunt Severa verbatim) and the texture of his hair.

She’s got her grandmother’s eyes too, which is something everyone’s been gushing about since she can remember. Not that she minds it at all.

What she doesn’t have, though, is what she can’t help but think about the most, the knowledge of it a constant nagging in the back of her head.

“Oh how I envy you,” she says, heaves a sigh in a rather theatrical fashion. That’s one thing she takes after her other father at least.

Sprawled on the bed next to her, Ophelia lets herself perk up from the usual state of profound concentration she dives into whenever she’s writing. “Do you?”

“Yeah, I mean!” Soleil’s sitting up now, voice raised in a way that has her sister wrinkle her nose ever so slightly. “You’re so… artsy and _inspired_ and― and good with words!”

“You’re fairly well versed in the fine art of words too,” Ophelia states and Soleil could swear she’s never heard anyone say something so matter-of-factly so sweetly and in such a convoluted way.

“I’m only good at sweet-talking,” she mutters with a shrug. “Can’t actually breathe life into anything the way you guys do.”

There’s a shift by her side as Ophelia turns her head towards her, still lying down. Their legs tangle at their ankles and her feet are warm.

“Interpreting is generative,” she says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, then flips her diary open again, pen already swirling in between her fingers. “So worry not, ‘kay?”

Soleil stares down at her as she turns that upside down, lets it sink until she thinks she’s more or less got it. She could swear there’s the tiniest of smiles tugging at the corner of Ophelia’s lips.

 

.

 

“That’s what she said.”

Mitama’s hands have smudges of black ink scattered on her fingers and palms, her eyes look droopy with lazy content. They’ve both stayed at school for club activities and Soleil could almost forget how sweaty and uncomfortably sticky she feels right now, back slouched against one of the trees in the yard.

“Interpreting is generative?” Mitama repeats, clicks her tongue the way she does when she’s pondering something. “I guess I can agree with that.”

She flashes Soleil a smile then, nothing more than a subtle upturn of her mouth but that’s just how it is with her. “You know how I feel about those who love poetry, may they be gifted or not.”

It makes Soleil cringe a little at the memory of her first attempts, crumpled paper and purple prose at its finest, but that gets half a giggle out of Mitama and really, in the end she would do it all again.

Maybe with just a tad bit less purple prose.

She clears her throat.

“Ah, the sound of your laughter will be the end of me one day,” she declares. “I fear it won’t be long till I drop at your feet.”

“Please don’t.”

“I simply must!” She carries on unscathed, peeling herself off the tree so that she can kneel in front of Mitama, who’s trying her best to feign indignation.

“For my Muse tantalizes me with mirth as cruel as a siren’s song―”

“Alright, I got it,” Mitama cuts in, and the way her voice curls around stifled amusement is enough to make Soleil’s heart leap. “What should I do to make you _stop_ this?”

Soleil looks up at her, countless things to say all bubbling their way up her throat at the same time, then, “smile again?”

This time Mitama laughs out loud.

 


End file.
